Planescape Torment REBORN - PART 3: The Mortuary

You meet an old scribe named Dhall, he's the cataloger of the stream of corpses that flow in and out the Mortuary. He has more answers than you thought, but what intrigues you more than anything is hi

As you are about to enter the next chamber, you can hear an old man coughing behind the rusty metal door. he barely has much left behind his dry fainting. whoever it is on the other side must've definitely heard you and Morte yapping at one another, unless age has deafened him. "Shhhh-" you dig your elbow into Morte's temple, and slowly move the door just enough so you can peak and squeeze through without making much of a ruckus. behind the crack, you can see a big ledger, bigger than a big man, with light emanating from behind. you need to get in behind the room to know what's behind the ledger so you did. nonchalantly. ready for some light to be shed. Morte is completely silent watching your every move towards the source of the coughs.

                "Whoa- chief. what r you doing?" Morte has reasons to panic because you are not even sneaking. he hisses through his teeth.

                "The man is old. he wont be able to yell loud... and he might have some i answers."

                You're definitely not presenting any threats to the old man as you start to see him being revealed behind the ledger. he's sitting on a floating chair, there's a perfectly round glowing bulb attached to the rod on it. the man looks even worse than you thought, he's very old... his skin is wrinkled and has a slight trace of yellow, like old parchment. charcoal-gray eyes lie within an angular face, and a large white beard flows down the front of his robes like a waterfall. his breathing is ragged and even more irregular up close, but the occasional coughing does not slow the scratching of his quill pen.

                "Greetings." you show your hands to the front not for him to see but for the air to be stir just enough for him to get a sense of your friendly presence.

                "Whoa, chief! what are you doing?!"

                "He might know something, stay quiet!"    

                "Look, rattling your bone-box with Dusties should be the LAST thing-"

                Before Morte can finish his rant, the scribe begins coughing violently. After a moment or two, the coughing spell dies down, and the scribe’s breathing resumes its ragged wheeze.

                “And we especially shouldn’t be swapping the chant with sick Dusties. C'mon lets leave. The quicker we give this place the laugh the bett-“

                Before Morte can finish, the scribe’s gray eyes flicker to you. “The weight of the years hangs heavy upon me, Restless One” He places down his quill. “ …but I do not yet count deafness among me ailments.”

                “Restless One? Do you know me?” he might have more answer than you thought.

                “Know you? I…” there a trace of bitterness in the scribe’s voice as he speaks. “I have *never* know u, restless one. No more than you have know yourself.” He is silent for a moment. “for you  have forgotten, have you not?”

                “Who *are* you?”

                “Always the question. And the wrong question, as always.” He bows slightly, but the movement suddenly sends him into a bout of cough. “I…” He pauses for a moment, catches his breath. “I… am Dhall.”

                “You sound ill. Are you not well?”

                “I am close now to the true death, restless one. It will not be long before I pass beyond the eternal boundary and find the peace I have been seeking. I tire of this mortal sphere…” Dhall gives a ragged sigh. “the planes hold no more wonders for one such as i.”

                …

                “Live forever nor live again I no longer wish for, Restless one. I could not bear it.”

                “Eternal boundaries?”

                “The boundary between the shadow of this life and the true death.”

                “True death?”

                “Is non-existence. A state devoid of reason, of sensation, of passion.” Dhall coughs, then gives a ragged breath. “a state of purity.”

                “Sounds oblivious. But not many people want that.”

                “I'm worse off parting from this shadow of what life once was.”

                “Shadow?”

                “Yes, a shadow. You see, restless one, this life… it is not real. your life, my life, they are shadows, flickerings of what life once was. This ‘life’ is where we end up *after* we die. And here we remain… trapped. Caged. Until we can achieve the true death.”

                “What make you think this life isn’t real?” you sit down on the floor.

                “What make you think this life is real? Look inside yourself. Do you not feel something lacking?” Dhall shake his head. “this is a purgatory. There is only sorrow here. Misery. Torment. These are not the elements that make up ‘life’. They are part of the cage that traps us in this shadow.”

                “Cage us?

                Dhall shakes his head. “passion carry weight. They anchor many to this shadow of life. As long as one clings to emotion, they will be continually reborn to this ‘life’, forever suffering, never knowing the purity of true death.”

                “And… how does one escape the cycle of rebirth and achieve this… true death?”

                “Kill your passion. Strip yourself of the need for sensation. When you are truly cleansed, then the cycle of rebirth will end, and you achieve peace.” Dhall signs… it sounds like a death rattle in his throat. “past these shells of ours, past the eternal boundary, lies the peace that all souls seek.”

                “I’m a long way from that.” you look around the chamber as if staring through the walls.

                “You are in the mortuary, restless one. Again you have… come…” before he can finish, Dhall breaks into a fit of coughing. After a moment, he calms himself and his breathing resumes its ragged wheeze. “…this is the waiting room for those about to depart the shadow of life. Where the dead are brought to be interred or cremated. It is our responsibility as dustmen to care for the dead, those who have life this shadow of life and walk the path to true death.” Dhall voice drops in concern. “your wounds must have exacted a heavy toll if you do not recognize this place. It is almost your home.” 

                “Dustmen?” you feel guilty about making the old scribe talk so much, but he seems passionate about his own version of philosophy of the dustmen and he would not mind having you as a company.

                “We dustmen are a faction, a gathering of those that recognize the illusion of this life. We await the next life, and help others on their journey.”

                “Am I being helped?...” you trace the scars on your body.

                Dhall signs. “there are souls who can never attain the true death. Death has forsaken them, and their names shall never be penned in the dead-book. To awake from death as you have done… suggests you are one of these souls. your existence is unacceptable to our faction.”

                “Is that why are you calling me restless one?” you ask the question you sure you have multivariant of different answers of.

                “Restless is as good a term as any…” Shall draws a ragged breath. “ something keeps you here, does it not? Something that must be resolved, some passion that must be quenched before you can reach the true death?”   

                “And you also don’t seem to be in favor of killing me.”

                “Because forcing our beliefs upon you is not just. you must give up this shadow of life on your own, not because we force you to.” Dhall looks about to break into another coughing jag, but he manages to hold it in with some effort. “as long as I remain at my post, I will protect your right to search for your own truth.

                ...

                Dhall jumps slightly as if he thinks he’s making you wait. “I am a scribe, cataloger of all the shells that come to the mortuary.” Dhall cough again, then takes a deep breath. “as long as the stream of corpses flows through the mortuary, I shall remain at my pot.”

                “How did I get here?”

                Dhall snorts in contempt, as if he finds the memory repugnant. “ your moldy chariot ferried you to the mortuary, restless one. you would think you were royalty based on the number of loyal subjects that lay stinking and festering upon the cart the carried u.”

                “I arrived on a cart you said?”

                “Yes… your body was somewhere in the middle of the heap, sharing its fluids with the rest of the mountain of corpses.” Dhall breaks into another violent fit of coughing, finally catching his breath minutes later. “your ‘seneschal’ Pharod was, as always, pleased to accept a few moldy coppers to dump the lot of you at the mortuary gate.”

                “Who is this Pharod guy?”

                “He is a… collector of the dead.” Dhall draws a ragged breath, then continues. “we have such ppl in our city that scavenge the bodies of those that have walked the path of true death and bring them to us so that they may be interred properly.”

                …Dhall pauses.

                “Not the kind I have any respect for. knight of the pose, cross-trading filth of the lowest sort. That thief would take what ever he may pry from stiffening fingers.”

                “I’m missing some of my belongings.”

                “If it was of any value, I wouldn’t be surprise if Pharod has it.”

                “Where do I find him?”

                “If events persist as they have, restless one, you have a much greater chance of Pharod finding you and bringing you to us again before you find whatever ooze puddle he wallows in this time.”

                “I must do it.”

A slight warning creeps into Dhall’s tone. “Do not seek out Pharod, restless one. I am certain that it will simply come full circle again, with you none the wiser and Pharod a few corpses richer. Accept death, restless one. Do not perpetuate your circle of misery.”

Dhall is silent for a moment. When he finally speaks, he seems to do so reluctantly. “I do not know under which gutter-stone Pharod lairs at the moment, but I imagine that he can be found somewhere beyond the mortuary gates, in the hive. Perhaps someone there will know where you can find him.”

“How do I get out of here Dhall?”

“Hmmmm… the front gate is the most obvious exit, but they will not let anyone other than dustmen pass…” Dhall breaks into a ragged cough, then continues. “…one of the guides by the front gate has a key to it, but it is unlikely he will open it for you unless you are extremely persuasive.”

“Maybe if I know more about my identity, I would’ve been able to talk him into let me out of here I’m sure.”

“I know scant little of u, restless one. I know little more of those that have journeyed with you and who now lie in your keeping.” Dhall signs. “I ask that you no longer ask others to join with u, restless one - where you walk, so walks misery. Let your burden be your own.”

You almost feel guilty for that. “There are others who have journeyed with me? And they are here?”

Dhall knows that you don’t remember, “do you not know the woman’s corpse interred in the memorial hall below? I had thought that she had traveled with you in the past…. Or am I mistaken?”

“I know nothing of her.”

Dhall makes no response to this. He simply stares at you in silence.

“Where do I find her?”

“The northwest memorial hall on the floor below us. Check the biers there… her name should be on one of the memorial plaques. Mayhap that will retrieve your memory.”

Something about the recollecting of the fragments in your memory about such woman takes you deep into your core, a significant amount of intricate connections spark in melancholy to familiar rhythms but you void of her physical presence “u said there were others?”

“Doubtless there are, but I know not their names, nor where they lie. One such as you has left a path many have walked, and few have survived.” Dhall gesture around u. “all dead come here. Some must have traveled with you once.”

“I will look for them, then. Mayhap they can spark my memory. Thanks Dhall. we’re never seeing each other again. Farewell.”

Dhall coughs through his smile.

As you turn to leave, Dhall speaks. “Know this: I do not envy u, restless one. To be reborn as you would be... a curse I could not bear. you must come to terms with it. At some point, your path will return you here…” Dhall coughs, the sound rattling in his throat. “it is the way of things flesh and bone.”

You say nothing and turn your attention to the zombies and the cabinets.

Morte is as quiet as he can be and seems unaffected by the warnings from Dhall about the company that you have on the path you travel.